


sing me a silent song

by Yersina



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Siren!Jaskier, canon typical prejudice against witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28910232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yersina/pseuds/Yersina
Summary: Geralt hears rumors of a siren in Posada.Or, rather, he hears various tales of a creature whose voice floats out of the woods, haunting and enchanting in equal measure, whose song sounds so beautiful that one can’t help but follow it. Strangely, these rumors aren’t followed by reports of deaths or disappearances, but these types of stories aren’t always—as much as people fear and hate, they tend to prefer the mystery of an open ending to the certainty of death.-Geralt hears of a siren first and Jaskier second, but somehow nothing changes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Relationship - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105





	sing me a silent song

**Author's Note:**

> i love creature!jaskier fics, but i realized that a p large portion of them involve geralt being oblivious to that fact, and then this idea wouldn’t let me go.
> 
> this is a mishmash of tv and game canon (which is why the sirens have wings), and probably still manages to be neither, so if you see smth iffy just,, ignore it pls,,

Geralt hears rumors of a siren in Posada.

Or, rather, he hears various tales of a creature whose voice floats out of the woods, haunting and enchanting in equal measure, whose song sounds so beautiful that one can’t help but follow it. Strangely, these rumors aren’t followed by reports of deaths or disappearances, but these types of stories aren’t always—as much as people fear and hate, they tend to prefer the mystery of an open ending to the certainty of death. 

The rumors follow the path of a small river upstream, and it’s near its mouth that Geralt finds the path to Posada. There are fewer stories here, only fables and legends of beautiful women luring sailors out to see, so Geralt figures that it’s only a matter of time before the siren makes its way here.

It does occur to him how _wrong_ the circumstances are. Sirens are sea creatures and can’t carry themselves very far from water, and that’s without mentioning the fact that they’re social creatures who don’t like to venture far from their school, either. The fact that one made it up a river and so far inland is… unusual, to say the least. Geralt still hasn’t ruled out the possibility of a lamia, but that too doesn’t quite fit—Posada is too far north, and lamias aren’t as fond of song as their sea-dwelling cousins. 

He wanders between Upper and Lower Posada for a few days, occasionally sleeping on the grasslands to avoid suspicion, and does his best to ignore the way his skin crawls when the towns’ inhabitants whisper of a devil hidden away, hunting and thieving. If he’s lucky, it’s just a starving wolf. Posada would be truly unlucky to be plagued by two monsters.

It doesn’t take much longer for him to grow restless, skulking around the wilderness and waiting for the siren to show itself. He’s used to being on edge for long periods of time, but in combination with his growing suspicion that he’s in the wrong place, it feels like an itch between his shoulder blades. 

“You reckon it heard me coming and ran the other way?” he muses, combing through Roach’s coat. Roach flicks her tail. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d be that lucky either.”

He decides to stop in the tavern for a drink before canvassing further for another job to fill his time while he waits. It’s an idea that he regrets immediately when a mother shoots him a glare and ushers her son away, but leaving now won’t save him from accusations of bringing misfortune with his mere presence. It is enough to put him in a foul mood, though, and he trudges to a corner of the small tavern and commandeers a booth for himself. 

He’s barely taken two sips when his medallion gives a warning tremble against his chest and he goes shock-still as the vibrations quickly grow in ferocity. 

Here? Now?

His vague plan to run outside with his sword drawn is dashed when the doors are thrown open and a man tumbles inside, clothes askew and instrument case slung over his shoulder. 

“Good people of Posada!” the newcomer announces loudly, much to the irritation of everyone within earshot. “Jaskier the bard, known far and wide for his unforgettable songs and—dare I say so myself—brilliant lyrics, has arrived.”

“I’ve never heard of you in my life,” someone yells from the back of the tavern and Geralt stifles a snort into his tankard. 

The bard lets the jibe glance off of him like water on a duck. “Well, this is the perfect chance for you to learn then, my good sir,” he says primly, and strides straight to the center of the room and starts unpacking his lute.

Geralt has no doubt that this is the siren—his medallion erases any hesitance he may have had—but he certainly doesn’t _act_ like a siren. For one, he has legs. For another, there’s no compulsion magic laced into the bard’s voice. The first can be easily solved through illusion magic, perhaps tied to that lute of his, but the second is more bemusing. It’s a simple matter for a siren to enchant a crowd, singing or not, and the fact that the bard hadn’t suggests… something. Geralt palms the hilt of his sword.

The bard strums a chord on his lute and launches into a rendition of a Southern drinking song, voice startlingly human and no magic in sight. Geralt has never heard the bare voice of a siren before, has never even thought to consider whether such thing existed, but the reality of it is… fine. Not _unpleasant,_ at least, to Geralt’s untrained ear, and preferable to the alternative. 

The whole situation feels so off-kilter that Geralt’s not sure whether he should leave and wait for the siren to finish his skit to kill him or haul him out by his silk finery and stab him through before he can try anything. The siren looks to be enjoying himself, at least, somehow completely ignorant to the dirty looks that the other bar patrons are shooting him. Towns like this have never appreciated loud outsiders.

Geralt takes another gulp of his ale and studies the bard from the corner of his eye while he thinks about what to do. The rumors that he’d been following suggested a monster in the woods, luring people to their deaths, not an overenthusiastic bard who can’t understand when he’s not welcome. He _should_ kill him regardless, prevent him from killing anyone else once he decides that an unwilling crowd isn’t satisfying enough, but…

Well.

(The image of another human-shaped monster flashes through his mind, this one with soft, wavy hair and solemn eyes that have seen too much cruelty. 

Non-interference, he’d promised himself, and he’d failed.)

He stays his hand until food starts being flung and the bard is forced off his makeshift stage, face flushed with a combination of adrenaline and indignation. This is good—Geralt can follow him out, hopefully further away from town, and kill him then.

To his surprise, the bard heads in his direction instead. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” 

Geralt pays half a mind to the rest of the conversation, too focused on the openness with which the bard—Jaskier, he’d called himself—holds himself, loose and fluid and entirely in contrast to the wariness with which the townspeople treat him. He unapologetically rakes his eyes over Geralt’s figure, almost leering, until eventually he glances over to Geralt’s swords. 

Geralt freezes, waiting for any spark of recognition, but Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise, not fear. “I know who you are,” he says, and Geralt wishes this were the first time he heard that statement from a creature. “You’re the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

There’s still no fear in Jaskier’s expression, no primal recognition of prey realizing that it’s about to be caught. Geralt can only see the lingering excitement from the incomplete performance, hear the way his heart thuds not from panic but from exertion, smell his satisfaction like a coat on the back of Geralt’s tongue. It’s not the expression of a monster to be killed.

Geralt shoves away from the table and collects his swords, not liking the direction that his thoughts are turning. It’s just as well that a man stops him and asks him to kill a devil. Perhaps he needs the reminder that monsters are just that.

Monsters.

(Jaskier is _different,_ though.

Even when he catches up to Geralt a few moments later, even with every footstep away from Posada, Geralt still can’t bring himself to unsheathe his silver sword despite his medallion rattling against his chest. 

It’s the expressions, he tells himself. There’s happiness and pride and curiosity in Jaskier’s face and gestures as he talks, disgust when he steps in animal droppings, annoyance when Geralt sweeps aside a long stalk of grass only for it to swing back and hit Jaskier in the face.

It somehow feels even more unnatural than Jaskier’s creature status. Geralt is used to dealing with people on the edge of humanity, ones who know that they’re one breath away from being as shunned and chased as the monsters they seek to kill and distance themselves from. It’s a grim destiny, one that lends itself to cynical laughter and crooked smiles, shared glances over a campfire and stolen touches, and it’s one that always ends in bloodshed. He is not, however, accustomed to the way Jaskier chimes in every now and then with some other meaningless piece of small talk, voice light and human and nothing like eyes glinting in the dark. 

Perhaps, in the end, it’s his humanness, his utter nonchalance in the company of something that can kill him, that stays Geralt’s hand. Jaskier has shown no sign of wanting to prey on humans, and singing notwithstanding, he hasn’t done any harm either. 

Non-interference, Geralt had promised himself.

He wonders how long it’ll last this time.) 

**Author's Note:**

> i might?? write more for this?? maybe from jaskier’s pov??? who knows not me nope
> 
> [tumblr](https://littlenookofnonsense.tumblr.com/) | [twt](https://twitter.com/yersin_a) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yersin_a)


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